What do you think?
Rate this book
Too Bad: Sketches Toward a Self-Portrait
A prodigious body of innovative writing behind him, Robert Kroetsch turns to a starker lyrical mode in Too Bad. Oscillating between the many moods of a human heart that has lived through so much — from whimsy and scorn through desire, longing, lust, love, and serenity — these sketches mark a candid walk through the tortuous corridors of the poet’s remembering, and exemplify the rehearsed dictum of an old teacher: “Every enduring poem was written today.”
Robert Kroetsch states in his introduction, “This book is not an autobiography. It is a gesture toward a self-portrait, which I take to be quite a different kettle of fish.”
Robert Kroetsch states in his introduction, “This book is not an autobiography. It is a gesture toward a self-portrait, which I take to be quite a different kettle of fish.”
112 pages, Paperback
First published February 2, 2006
2 people are currently reading
16 people want to read
About the author
Robert Kroetsch
55 books24 followersRobert Kroetsch was a Canadian novelist, poet, and non-fiction writer. He taught for many years at the University of Manitoba. Kroetsch spent multiple years in Vancouver, British Columbia before returning to Winnipeg where he continued to write. In 2004 he was made an Officer of the Order of Canada.
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews
January 20, 2022
At last, winter falling upon us, snow
rides the down elevator from invisible skies.
Now ain't this something grand?
We welcome winter. Snow is the real thing,
after the false exuberance of summer.
The first snow is soft and warm. Mothering.
I was born in the month of June.
June is a month of rainbows.
The crops were rising green.
My mother claimed I bit her nipples
so hard she couldn't breast feed.
Back then I was greedy for life.
* * *
We are the animals who talk the fables
in which the animals talk. We are talking
animals, claiming that animals don't talk.
A dinosaur and a dodo and a man
walk into this bar. The bartender asks for ID.
I forget the rest of the story.
* * *
I ransacked my life for a poem. I pillaged my dreams.
I sacked a whole city of books, looking for clues
that would lead to a clue that would solve the riddle.
Lucretius says, of course there are gods; bu the gods
are as helpless as we. He doesn't quiet say it, but perhaps
we should offer them pity. Done in by creation itself.
I mean the gods. Not us. Well us too.
The gods moved into books. Who wrote the books?
We wrote the books. In whose dream, then, are we dreaming?
* * *
All he wants is a new face. He sticks
out his tongue. o one takes note.
He pulls his ears away from his head.
He dresses for Halloween. He wears a mask
and carries a large empty sack. It's
a January night. he receives no treats.
Perhaps the face is a mirage. He feigns
a worried look. No one takes note.
He becomes care-worn and worried.
He tries growing old. His face maps
his terror in delicate lines, a path
to his secret longing. No one takes note.
* * *
If I were you
what would I do?
I would double my sum.
But if you were me
then who would I be?
Ad if we became
each other's other
and wanted to kiss,
why then would we bother?
* * *
In a dream last night he forgot
to shovel the walk for the postman.
What message is he expecting?
The sun came up again this morning.
What a miracle!
He sings in the shower.
Today he is sure he will get down to work.
He scrapes the ice off his windshield.
He stops at Starbucks for a latte.
* * *
We were seated for drinks with a statue:
Fernando Pessoa himself, cast in bronze,
at a bronze table, there in a square in Lisbon.
We were seated on bronze chairs,
out-of-doors, my to daughters and I.
We were waiting for table service.
Meg asked Pessoa if he'd like a coffee.
He was rather stiff and formal, in his bronze hat.
He wouldn't nod; he wouldn't speak a word.
Laura said to Pessoa, My dad likes your poems.
He thinks you're the greatest. He says
when he first read you, he fell off his chair.
Pessoa didn't so much as crack a smile.
It was one of his many voices that spoke.
From the empty chair I was sitting on.
Sit, the voice said, I am and am not
Pessoa. Make up your own mind. Meanwhile,
get off my lap, you're squashing me.
* * *
Thank your lucky stars. Today
you might win the lottery. Chances are
you didn't buy a ticket, but if you had
you might have struck it rich; today
you might meet a gorgeous widow, but
the chances are you haven't combed your hair.
The Crab is your symbol. You like deep water.
The moon is your planet. You are mooning around.
In your miserable way, you are happy.
Today you might have written a poem.
But the chances are you've a hangover.
There. You've connected with the cosmos.
* * *
The Meadowlarks sing
haiku on prairie fence posts:
barbed wire notations.
The goldfinches flash
tropical in northern air.
Where did the lights go?
The gophers dig holes
and hide in a prairie field.
We feed them poison.
What about coyotes?
They are moving into town.
They like to eat dogs.
And as for people,
well, we claim to like nature.
We make the sky fall.
rides the down elevator from invisible skies.
Now ain't this something grand?
We welcome winter. Snow is the real thing,
after the false exuberance of summer.
The first snow is soft and warm. Mothering.
I was born in the month of June.
June is a month of rainbows.
The crops were rising green.
My mother claimed I bit her nipples
so hard she couldn't breast feed.
Back then I was greedy for life.
- Afterthought 1, pg. 3
* * *
We are the animals who talk the fables
in which the animals talk. We are talking
animals, claiming that animals don't talk.
A dinosaur and a dodo and a man
walk into this bar. The bartender asks for ID.
I forget the rest of the story.
- Fable, pg. 12
* * *
I ransacked my life for a poem. I pillaged my dreams.
I sacked a whole city of books, looking for clues
that would lead to a clue that would solve the riddle.
Lucretius says, of course there are gods; bu the gods
are as helpless as we. He doesn't quiet say it, but perhaps
we should offer them pity. Done in by creation itself.
I mean the gods. Not us. Well us too.
The gods moved into books. Who wrote the books?
We wrote the books. In whose dream, then, are we dreaming?
- Guesswork, pg. 27
* * *
All he wants is a new face. He sticks
out his tongue. o one takes note.
He pulls his ears away from his head.
He dresses for Halloween. He wears a mask
and carries a large empty sack. It's
a January night. he receives no treats.
Perhaps the face is a mirage. He feigns
a worried look. No one takes note.
He becomes care-worn and worried.
He tries growing old. His face maps
his terror in delicate lines, a path
to his secret longing. No one takes note.
- Making Faces, pg. 34
* * *
If I were you
what would I do?
I would double my sum.
But if you were me
then who would I be?
Ad if we became
each other's other
and wanted to kiss,
why then would we bother?
- If I Were You, pg. 46
* * *
In a dream last night he forgot
to shovel the walk for the postman.
What message is he expecting?
The sun came up again this morning.
What a miracle!
He sings in the shower.
Today he is sure he will get down to work.
He scrapes the ice off his windshield.
He stops at Starbucks for a latte.
- About the Author, pg. 51
* * *
We were seated for drinks with a statue:
Fernando Pessoa himself, cast in bronze,
at a bronze table, there in a square in Lisbon.
We were seated on bronze chairs,
out-of-doors, my to daughters and I.
We were waiting for table service.
Meg asked Pessoa if he'd like a coffee.
He was rather stiff and formal, in his bronze hat.
He wouldn't nod; he wouldn't speak a word.
Laura said to Pessoa, My dad likes your poems.
He thinks you're the greatest. He says
when he first read you, he fell off his chair.
Pessoa didn't so much as crack a smile.
It was one of his many voices that spoke.
From the empty chair I was sitting on.
Sit, the voice said, I am and am not
Pessoa. Make up your own mind. Meanwhile,
get off my lap, you're squashing me.
- Pessoa and His Heteronyms, pg. 65
* * *
Thank your lucky stars. Today
you might win the lottery. Chances are
you didn't buy a ticket, but if you had
you might have struck it rich; today
you might meet a gorgeous widow, but
the chances are you haven't combed your hair.
The Crab is your symbol. You like deep water.
The moon is your planet. You are mooning around.
In your miserable way, you are happy.
Today you might have written a poem.
But the chances are you've a hangover.
There. You've connected with the cosmos.
- Horoscope, pg. 71
* * *
The Meadowlarks sing
haiku on prairie fence posts:
barbed wire notations.
The goldfinches flash
tropical in northern air.
Where did the lights go?
The gophers dig holes
and hide in a prairie field.
We feed them poison.
What about coyotes?
They are moving into town.
They like to eat dogs.
And as for people,
well, we claim to like nature.
We make the sky fall.
- The Sky is Falling, pg. 90
February 29, 2012
An interesting mix of funny poems and serious ones, I'm not sure what to make of this book. This isn't the kind of poetry I read (when I do read poetry at all), so it was a change of pace for me. Perhaps I read it too fast and didn't think on any of the poems enough. I did find a few that I enjoyed a lot, and bookmarked to go back to later. All in all, I did like this collection, it was funny and interesting and then near the end it got more serious. But I guess that was the point, in creating a self-portrait of himself; I suppose it shows how he grew and changed as a person throughout his life, in which case it succeeded.
Read
December 14, 2010What a lovely collection of poems. I liked how you could get an idea of how Kroetsch was at various times in his life. There's a lot of wordplay and humour in this and a huge love for life. I loved his irreverence and dirty mind, and his awe at the world.
May 7, 2011
Fantastic collection.
August 27, 2016
Ah, poems I like! 'Laundering the Poem' stood out and 'Just Be Yourself' (1 & 2) talked to me.
Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews